


wrap me up in chanel inside my coffin

by SomeBratInAMask



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Canon Compliant, Drabbles, Multi, Vampires, Werewolves, disgustingly grayson-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-14 04:11:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7998109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeBratInAMask/pseuds/SomeBratInAMask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my DC drabbles from Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gen: Nightwing's Patrol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title from R.I.P. to My Youth by The Neighborhood.

Nightwing was sitting on a rooftop, legs swung over the edge when he heard a shriek two blocks over. He was on his feet before his next breath, leaping across buildings toward the crisis. The screaming didn’t end, but the closer he got, the clearer he could distinguish the sobs punctuating them. 

He swallowed the dryness in his throat. It sounded like a kid. 

He got to a rooftop overlooking a sidewalk. A man in a black baseball cap was closing a van door. The windows were tinted. Nightwing crawled halfway down the building, leveraging himself with window sills, before jumping the rest of the way down. 

Once on the pavement, it took him half a second to cover the space. He yanked the back of the man’s collar, punching him once. He skidded backwards and fell on the ground. Nightwing tore open the door, undid the seat belts, and hefted the lone bundle of gagged child out of the van. A second man in the driver’s seat shouted. 

Nightwing rounded the van. By the time the driver had the window rolled down and gun pointing out, Nightwing was ready to kick the weapon and sending it flying into the empty road. The driver rolled the window up. 

Nightwing retrieved the gun before returning to the van. He politely knocked his knuckles on the window. “Open the door,” he requested. The engine started. 

He smashed the glass with the butt of the gun, unlocked the door, and set the weapon on the car hood. The driver wasn’t buckled in. “This is why you should always buckle up,” Nightwing scolded. 

With two hands, he managed to hoist the large, squirming man out of the car. Not giving him the chance to fight back, he rammed his head against the side of the car. The guy went limp. 

Nightwing let him slump to the ground as he rummaged through the front seats. He found a bag of zip ties and grabbed it, setting to work on restraining the kidnappers. Once they were finished, he whipped out his cell and dialed 911. He balanced the phone on his shoulder, using his hands to undo the zip ties around the child’s ankles and wrists. He reported the situation for police pick-up. 

Finally, he looked at the little girl. Her hair was was short and beaded in soft blues and whites. A butterfly barrette clipped the bottom of each braid. Her big brown eyes were glassy with tears and she was hyperventilating through her nose. Her hot pink jeans were stained in the front. 

These were the worst nights. 

He gently removed the gag, tossing it into the backseat. “Hey,” he said softly, “how are you feeling, kiddo? They hurt you?“ 

She rubbed her wrists, where the plastic had just barely chafed, but shook her head no. The beads sounded like wind chimes. 

“What’s your name?“ 

"Bebe,” she answered, voice still a little shaky. 

He was kneeling at eye-level. “I’m sorry that happened, Bebe,” he told her. “But you won’t ever see them again. I promise.” Bebe gazed warily at the first man, tied up and unconscious. “Do you believe me?” Nightwing asked. 

She hesitated, but then nodded her head firmly. 

Nightwing smiled. “Good. What happened to your parents?" 

Bebe used her hands as she spoke. It was adorable. "My dad was supposed to pick me up from dance practice,” she explained, pointing in the vague direction of where the studio might be. “But he was, like, really-super late. So I was gonna walk home. But then,” her eyes caught on the van and she trailed off. 

There had been traffic on a nearby route from 5 to 7 tonight. It was 8 now.

“Do you know your parents’ numbers?”

Bebe slowly shook her head, looking ashamed. “I keep forgetting,” she admitted.

“You don’t have a phone?" 

"Dad was supposed to get me one after dance." 

The worst part for parents, he would guess: the small breaches sickos find in your child’s armor. The almost's and what-if's that haunt you. The tiniest reasons you can beat yourself up for, because all it took was traffic. 

"I’m going to take you to the police station, okay, Bebe? They can help us find your parents,” Nightwing said. “Do you trust me to walk you there?" 

Bebe nodded. "Of course. You’re pretty.”

Nightwing laughed, burying his face in his hands briefly. “Alright, I’ll give you that. Try not to follow that guideline when you get older though,” he warned.

He stuck out his hand. Bebe took it. When she smiled, her dimples flashed.


	2. Wally & Dick: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Ginger

“Found a thermometer!” Dick announced, brandishing something in his hands as he waltzed into the room. With great effort, Wally managed to lift his head and look at him. He was sitting at the end of Dick’s bed, straitjacketed in layers of blankets. His eyes felt like they were bugging from his sockets and he was one breath away from his forehead exploding in a mess of snot. “I usually have it on the sink, but I must’ve knocked it into the trash. I probably should organize my bathroom, but I never have the _time,”_ Dick babbled.

“Augh,” attempted Wally.  He stretched his neck from the mass of blankets consuming him. He felt more like a turtle than a human at the moment.

“You’re so Rudolph the Red-Nosed Ginger right now,” Dick commented.

“I feel like a turtle,” Wally told him. He almost went cross-eyed, gazing at the thermometer. It was hovering about his tongue when he registered what it actually was and shrieked. He jerked his head backward. “That’s not a thermometer, you asshole!”

“What,” said Dick blankly.

“That’s a freaking pregnancy test!”

Dick retracted the stick and scrutinized it. “That makes no sense. Why would I have a pregnancy test in my trash can?”

“Oh, my god,” wailed Wally. He furiously wiped at his tongue. “You just put _dried pee_ in my mouth. Oh, my god.”

“Oh, my god,” Dick murmured. His eyes were widening as he continued to stare in terror. “But I always use condoms,” he denied. He suddenly shoved the pregnancy test back in Wally’s face. “Is this positive?” he demanded.

“I don’t know, why not just _deep-throat me with it and see if I get an answer?”_ He wacked Dick’s arm away.

Dick wrinkled his nose. “Don’t be vulgar.”

“I just ate pee! I’m having a crisis!”

“Hello, having-a-crisis, _I’m dad!”_ Dick yelled, throwing his hands in the air.

“Just call Babs!”

Dick looked at him like he was crazy. “Are you crazy? What if it’s hers?”

Wally’s eyebrows furrowed, tongue hanging out. “Is there another potential baby mama?”

“No, of course not! But maybe, like, someone snuck in and - ”

“Popped a squat and discarded the evidence in your bathroom?”

Dick grimaced. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Yeah, but usually they have to do with the world ending. Do you still have my toothbrush here?” Wally made to stand up, but Dick snatched his blanket cocoon and Wally tumbled onto the mattress like a helpless, futile worm.

“We need to find the instructions,” he said gravely.

Wally glared up at him. “I’m sick and just had your girlfriend’s urine on my tongue. I’m done for the day. F.Y.I., never coming here again.”

Dick’s eyes wandered across the room. “I think that’s what Babs is thinking, too.”

Wally groaned.


	3. Jaydick: Sugar

Jason jumped down onto the lower roof. He did his best to be quiet, but Dick’s head still swiveled. Dick gave a small wave from where he sat on the ledge, gloved fingers wrapped around a jelly doughnut. An entire box rested beside him, lid flipped open. It was nearly empty.

Jason walked forward. “Have you been doing nothing but scarfing down doughnuts all night?” he asked. He went to remove his helmet, but decided against it and dropped his hands to his sides.

When Dick opened his mouth, Jason could see some pieces of mashed up food. “I’m a cop,” he defended, words stuffed like cotton around the pastry.

Jason stopped in front of him. “You mean you’re a _cliché.”_

Dick popped the last piece of the doughnut into his mouth. He licked off the jelly from his fingers. “A happy cliché. So happy, Jaybird.”

“How do you even stay fit with the sheer quantities of sugar you consume? I don’t even think Tim eats this much. And I’ve seen the toothpick eat two meatball grinders in ten minutes,” compared Jason. When Dick laughed, he said, “That’s not an exaggeration. I _timed_ it. On a dare. You and Tim are going to get fat.”

Dick shrugged. “That’s okay.” He wrapped his legs around Jason’s waist, bringing him closer. Jason leaned forward and placed a hand on either side of the ledge. Dick titled his face upward, as if he might see Jason’s face better through the helmet. His black hair fell into the white lenses of his mask. Jason traced the wings of his mask from the top of his cheekbone to the corner of Dick’s lips. Dick smiled. “Just promise me you’ll still love me when I’m old and chubby,” he joked.

“Nah,” said Jason. He skidded his hands over Dick’s thighs, slipping them underneath. “I think I’ll just dump your body over whatever skyscraper you’re perched on and keep the doughnuts for myself.” As he spoke, he pressed his thumbs into Dick’s skin and gripped him. Clutching Dick’s thighs, Jason dipped him over the ledge. His back was hanging in the air, hundreds of feet above ground.

Dick made a startled noise and surged forward, winding his arms around Jason’s shoulders. “What are you doing? Stop!” he protested.

Jason laughed. “Relax,” he placated, rubbing circles into Dick’s thighs. “I wasn’t going to let you _fall.”_

Dick’s jaw dropped. He looked scandalized. “Dude, _not cool!”_ he informed. But he still held onto Jason.

“Sorry.” Jason dropped his head, letting their foreheads touch. “Thought it was funny.”

Dick twisted his lips, contemplative. “Maybe I can grow, look back on this moment with humor. If it never happens again.”

“How mature of you.”

“Nope.” Dick grabbed the back of Jason’s jacket collar. “Don’t want to hear snark from the man who playfully tried to launch me to my death.”

“Emphasis on the playfully,” Jason interjected.

“Emphasis on the _death.”_ Dick paused in thought. “Also? Emphasis on _launch._ It just has a very strong sound to it. Doesn’t it?”

It did, but Jason wasn’t about to get caught up in Dick’s word games tonight. Though he might try his own. “I could think of better places to launch you onto,” he hinted.

Dick grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “Oh, let me guess. A bed. It’s a bed, isn’t it?”

“Good guess, but _nope.”_ Jason abruptly grabbed Dick’s thighs again. “It’s another building.” He tipped him backwards off the ledge.

Dick didn’t react much this time, letting Jason push him over steadily until half his body was suspended in the air. Dick gazed up at him flatly, hair pooling upside down and abs flexing as he helped hold himself up. “You’re an ass, and you’re not going into my doughnut-will if I die.”

“Tragic.” Jason squeezed Dick’s legs, signaling him to sit up. Dick obeyed. He stuck his thumbs under Jason’s helmet.

“Off?” he asked.

Jason took it off and let Dick kiss him, powdered lips and strawberry tongue.


	4. Dicknighter: Boyfriend

“You know what you remind me of?” M asked, scraping crunchy peanut butter onto a piece of bread.

Dick’s lips twitched. “What?”

“One of those cheerleaders on daytime television movies. The ones that act like Grade A Bitches, but turn out to secretly hate themselves because they’ll never amount to society’s expectations.” M cleaned the knife with a napkin, then dipped it into a jar of strawberry jam.

Dick snorted, rounding the kitchen island to stand beside M. “At the age of five, I joined my parents in Haly’s ring – the youngest circus performer in the world.” Dick grinned magnificently. “At the age of nine, I was nationally known as an acrobatic prodigy. At the age of thirteen, I was cracking cases that stumped _Batman._ When I turned sixteen years old, I was leader of the Teen Titans and acknowledged by the Justice League as the natural heir to its captaincy.” At this, Dick did a little salute. “By eighteen, not only had I moved out on my own and become Nightwing, Bludhaven’s one and _only_ protector, but I had graduated from police training with flying colors and had every station in the region fawning over my resume for the chance of hiring me.”

Dick slyly tried to stick his finger in _his_ jar of peanut butter, but M batted his hand away. Dick continued, unperturbed, “Within twenty-one years of life, I became an international super-spy for an organization more powerful than the United Nations. Also, I’m gorgeous.” Dick smiled cheekily. “I’m not struggling to achieve perfection. I’m _inventing_ it.”

M’s mouth was parted slightly, somewhere between a smile and a scoff.

Damian busted through Kitchen #12’s door then, glanced at Dick and M’s hovering faces, and sneered. “I take it you’ve finally decided to introduce the family to your boyfriend, Grayson.” M jerked away, returning to his sandwich-making. Damian shut the door, striding forward with his chin tilted up.

 _“Ugh,_ I _despise_ using that word.” Damian scrunched his nose. “It even  _sounds_ juvenile.”

Dick grinned, amused, and snatched the peanut butter jar. He rifled through a drawer for a spoon, waving it at M emphatically before plunging it into the peanut butter. “What word?” he asked Damian.

 _“Boyfriend._ It combines two words I can’t stand being called.”

“Someone calling you a boyfriend?” said M.

Damian rolled his eyes disdainfully at Midnighter, heading for the refrigerator. “Please, don’t be ridiculous. I’m just insulted on your behalf.”

Dick leaned against the island, twirling his spoon in the air. “Luckily, you don’t have to use that word to describe Midnighter at all. On account of him _not_ being my boyfriend.”

Damian grabbed a bottle of water and untwisted the cap. “I’m engaging in banter,” Damian said, all formal, like a very mean, sarcastic robot. “I know he’s not your boyfriend. Todd was talking about you and Midnighter earlier. Said ‘they never leave the wife.’”

Midnighter laughed. Dick glared at Midnighter, then glared at Damian. “I’m so flattered that you two talk about me when I’m not around.”

Damian had chugged the water down completely. He must’ve just come from training. “I agree with Todd, just so you know. I stabbed him in the thigh with one of my switchblades, though. In your honor.”

“My hero,” Dick said flatly. He had a thing about not stabbing children. He wondered if Damian was a good enough exception.

He wondered if he could stab Midnighter, too, without making dinner tonight tense.


	5. Dickbabs: Pervert

Barbara spun the grapple, hooking it onto the roof across and gliding through the air. How did Robin do it? No grapple, no net, no tech – just leaps and cartwheels on dark lean legs. The same second she landed on the roof, he was bounding onto the next. Before he jumped, he peered at her over his shoulder and stuck his tongue out.

Fury reddened the knuckles beneath her gloves and she tore forward, his comment burning in her head. _She’s just a girl. How much harm can she do?_

Oh, she’d show him exactly how much.

She hated boys like him. Sexist pigs that relied on girls being inadequate so they’d never have to be special. And she hated Robin especially for never seeming like that, for seeming better than the assholes working for her father, for seeming like he _respected_ her until he didn’t. She hated herself a little for thinking he _was_ special. But she still hated him more.

Adrenaline soared through her muscles when she finally caught him. He slowed his running, tired, and she grabbed his cape. She yanked him to the ground of the rooftop, slamming his face into the concrete before flipping him over and punching him square in the jaw.

She would’ve kept punching had he never let a giggle slip. Her fist connected with his mouth, a breathy laugh escaped, and she paused – arm drawn taut above his stomach like a bow, teeth clenched. It was then that it occurred to her that he had tired out suspiciously early, and that he hadn’t made a single attempt to block her attacks.

Robin licked a patch of blood on his bottom lip, dark hair spilling over his mask. Even now, he didn’t try to escape. She noticed uncomfortably the scaly panties pressed against her knee. She scrambled away from his sprawled legs, heat rising to her cheeks.

“You said that to piss me off,” Barbara said, working through what happened. “You knew I’d get mad, that’s why you said it. You made me chase you and – oh my god,” she trailed off. The implications were setting in. “You’re a _pervert,”_ she accused.

Robin immediately clamped his legs shut, scooting back. He had the decency to look embarrassed, head ducked and arms wrapping around his knees. “My bad,” he apologized. Hands down, it was the shittiest apology Barbara had ever heard.

“Your _bad?”_   she repeated, shell shocked. “Jesus, you can pay people for this! Don’t trick me into – ” But she couldn’t find the courage to complete her sentence.

“Well, don’t make it weird!” Robin fired back, though his face was still partially downward.

Barbara fanned her arms out. _“I’m_ making it weird?”

At this, Robin looked directly at her, leaning forward slightly. “Prostitution is illegal,” he reminded.

“Boy, I’m about to do several illegal things to you,” she retorted. She recalled the situation, however, her gaze flickering briefly to his shorts before she dragged them back to his face. “I didn’t mean it in a  – ”

Robin sprung to his pixie boots, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Too late!” he chirped. Under the light of the moon and Gotham’s streetlamps, the faintest blush on his neck betrayed his discomfort. He threw Barbara a peace sign before bounding off, split lip and hard-on and all.

And the worst part of the night would be how relieved she was. Given the choice between Robin thinking she couldn’t beat him to a bloody pulp and Robin loving it when she did – she much preferred the latter.


	6. DickBabs: Ravenclaw Door Knocker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Babs is passionate about riddles. It's why she's a Ravenclaw.

A group of fifth years raced down the spiral staircase, robes billowing behind them as they swore anxiously and fumbled their books. Dick tapped his foot anxiously on the floor, knocking the back of his head against the wall. “Babs, come on. We’re both going to be late for class.”

Babs lightly patted his cheek. “You can run along then.”

“We have to present our project today!” What Dick didn’t say was: _you’re the only one who memorized the script on the appearance of polyjuice potions in popular culture._

“Well, I’m not leaving until the eagle permits entry into _my own dorm.”_

Dick rubbed his face and groaned. “What’s the question?”

The knocker crooned, _“What cannot be defined?”_

That sounded easy enough. “Love?” he guessed. The knocker did not reply. “Did it hear me?” he asked.

“I already tried love. I also tried zero. It won’t accept anything, because it’s stupid. A stupid bird.” Babs crossed her arms petulantly. “It’s not even a _real_ bird. It’s a door knocker.”

The door knocker responded in a voice that, while still musical, was now a touch irritated. _“Don’t question my authenticity.”_

Dick pushed off the wall in surprise. He looked to Babs to see if she, too, was caught off guard. For once, she was. Her eyes had widened behind her glasses.

Dick waved a hand in the door’s direction. “Okay, now it has commentary. What, couldn’t waste breath on telling me I was wrong?”

The door knocker resumed its silence. The hall was officially empty of even the perennially late Ravenclaws. Dick huffed, redirecting his attention to Babs. “You don’t even need anything, Barbara! You have everything for the next class on you,” he complained.

“Not true,” Babs disagreed. “I left my dignity in there.” She jerked her chin toward the eagle.

“Can’t your dignity wait until _after_ class?”

 _“What cannot be defined?”_ the door knocker repeated in its hollow, infuriatingly placid tone.

“The parameters of this freaking riddle!” Babs exclaimed, throwing out her arms. “I mean, how _arbitrary_ even _is_ this question? I could just say whatever answer I want and so long as you thought it was ‘logical’ or ‘wise,’ I’d get in!”

She whirled towards Dick. “That’s what’s wrong with this system, Dick! It’s simultaneously the easiest bullshit to crack and the most fickle rendition of a legitimate seal I’ve ever had the displeasure of witnessing throughout my educational career! There’s no actual answer!” Babs finished her rant, seething for a moment.

Dick bit his tongue, waiting for her to calm down before he attempted to dissuade her from the door again. As she relaxed, her eyes darted around the room. Dick tried to follow what she was seeing, glancing around with her.

“Oh, my god,” she breathed, eyebrows raised. “That’s the answer.”

Dick had not found the answer in any of the paintings hoisted on the walls or in the deep blue carpet. “What?”

“What cannot be defined?” Babs posed. “The answer. The answer cannot be defined.”

 _“Splendid! I knew you could do it!”_ rejoiced the knocker.

Babs jabbed an angry finger at the door. “You, shut up.” She pushed through the door with an indignant stride. Dick could’ve been wrong, but he swore there was something reluctantly proud in the twist of her mouth. Seconds later, she returned with a hairband. “Come on,” she ordered, taking the stairs quickly. As she walked, she pushed her bangs back with the tie.

“Is — is that what you got?” Dick pointed to his head. “The hair thingie?”

Babs nodded.

“Oh, fuck me. Are you kidding me, Babs? Seriously? We’re _late.”_

“Don’t be such a teacher’s pet. We’ll be fine.”

 


	7. Jaydick: Vampires/Werewolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for Jaydick Week Three (Halloween) - Day One: Animal Shape-Shifters.

The air creeps into cool, like October is dipping its toes into the cold, testing it out. There’s the normal smell of salt and fish that arises from the docks and always permeates the city of Bludhaven. Tonight, the stench of rotting flesh curls into the clouds and forces Jason to hold an arm over his nose. The tips of his fingers are red from the waterfront breeze. He slides them across the screen when a text lights up.

 

 **Bruce Wayne:** _Where are you?_

 

Jason replies, _The docks. Still investigating rumors of a vamp clan in the area._

He stuffs his hands inside the pockets of his jacket, watching fishermen dock their boats. Dusk has fallen; street lamps illuminate the knit caps decorating the heads of sailors. He’s been here for just under an hour, making calls and talking to passers-by. It’s just a hunch, but Jason thinks if he were a vampire, he’d pick off the fishermen.

The smell is heavy on his tongue and sticks between his teeth, coating the gums. He lays his head against the brick fence and tries not to breathe too much.

His phone goes off again.

 

 **Bruce Wayne:** _And?_

 **Jason Todd:** _They’re definitely true. It’s a big clan, though. Their smell is everywhere. It’s like they rubbed themselves against every package store and bait shop. Can’t trace it to a headquarters._

 **Bruce Wayne:** _The clan is just settling in. They’re scoping Bludhaven out. Have you called any hotels for large parties?_

 **Jason Todd:** _Yeah. Nothing._

 

Jason finishes the text and hits _send._ The smell is growing at this point, putrid and poignant. He wanted the warmth of his fur earlier when the temperature dropped, but now instincts raise the hair on his arms and push for sturdier bones, faster legs, more power in his veins. He knows with biological, visceral certainty one is closing in on him.

 

 **Bruce Wayne:** _If you find one, don’t attack. Send them to me. I need to negotiate the terms of their stay this near to Gotham._

 **Bruce Wayne:** _I mean it, Jason. Leave it to me._

 

He feels the weight of the figure behind him before it makes a grab. As soon as the hands clutch the back of his jacket, he seizes them and wrenches the body to the ground. There’s an impact and an _oof_ , and Jason snatches the vampire by the collar to tow him away from the fishermen.

“Nice try, but I can smell you a mile away,” says Jason, throwing the vampire against the wall.

“That’s not creepy,” the man replies, brushing dirt off his long sleeves. He’s dressed in covert black with wavy hair that tumbles over his crown and into his dark eyes. There’s a sort of refined wildness to him, between the angles of his face and the shadows cast over them, like he’s perfect cursive in bleeding ink.

“Says the guy who just dive-bombed me,” Jason fires back. “What are you, a fucking vulture?”

“Rude,” the vampire sniffs. “I’ve never preyed on the dead. Or the _un_ dead, for that matter. I’ve got a _code._ Just humans, animals, and sometimes werewolves, if they’re busy texting.”

Jason rolls his eyes.

“Not witches, though,” continues the vampire. “My mother was a witch, you know,” he brightly adds. “And not the Cursing Is Evil type, either. Our coven was _very_ traditional. But the 1600s were different times,” he concludes, bordering on nostalgic.

The phone in Jason’s jeans buzzes. He can practically feel Bruce looming over him, insistently annoying. “Well, that’s fantastic you have a code, because I’ve been looking for you.”

The vampire seems to perk up at that, eyes fluttering to stare straight at Jason. The vampire smiles and his fangs peek out. Jason restrains himself from cringing. “Oh?” he says, all silken curiosity.

“Yeah, and knowing you’re not a _cannibalistic_ parasite tops the prerequisite list for talking to me.”

“Crude opener, but keep going. I’m invested.” The vampire winks. A single fang gets stuck on his bottom lip.

“Don’t get excited,” Jason warns. “I’m not chasing vamp tail. This is a take-me-to-your-leader deal.”

The vampire hums and inches forward. Jason wills himself not to back up and not to bury his nose in his shirt. “I’m with the Wayne pack in Gotham,” he informs, businesslike. “News of the Titans taking up residence next door has traveled. We’re concerned about your clan’s intentions in Bludhaven and need to know you’re willing to cooperate — ”

“Are you the alpha?” the vampire interrupts.

Jason scowls. “You _really_ shouldn’t use that word.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” apologizes the vampire. “The boss? Master? Top dog?” Jason opens his mouth to speak, but the vampire holds up a finger in silence. “Wait for it — _head bitch?”_ The vampire laughs at his own joke, a full performance with his head thrown back and self-congratulatory applause.

Jason doesn’t know how to respond to that, beyond ripping the bloodsucker’s throat out. “Look, we just need to know when-and-where your leader can meet with ours for negotiation.”

“The leader is free whenever, but is fond of restaurants with outdoor dining and New York-style pizza. As far as location goes,” he explains with a smile.

Jason pauses, caught off-guard by the admission. He assumed a vampire leader would be more physically imposing and less — friendly. _“Right,”_ says Jason, recovering with sling-shot sarcasm. “So, how about tonight? I can get in contact with — ”

“How about my name?” asks the vampire, cocking his head. “You haven’t even requested my name and you’re setting me up on a blind date?”

Jason freezes in the middle of retrieving his phone to look at the vampire, utterly bewildered.

The vampire is grinning. “It’s Dick Grayson.”

“Of course, it is,” says Jason. “Of course, the weirdo blood — _vampire_ is called dick.” Jason quickly reroutes his sentence from the bloodsucker slur, tapping out a message to Bruce. 

 **Jason Todd:** _Found the leader. Dick Grayson. He’s meeting you tonight. Stay tuned._

 

Dick moves even closer to Jason. “This is all happening so fast. I’m not usually that type of girl,” he teases.

“What,” Jason says, deadpan.

“I haven’t had dinner yet and I’m being shuffled into a — a _board meeting._ By a _pup._ ”

Jason clenches and unclenches his jaw. His new friend is managing equal parts compliant and infuriating. “It’s best for my pack’s peace of mind that we hammer out a treaty as soon as possible.”

Dick raises his thick eyebrows. “No interspecies trust?”

“Nope, not particularly,” Jason confirms, mockingly upbeat, and slips his phone back into his pocket. “Especially when said species literally tries to jump me.”

The reminder provokes a pout from Dick. “I was hungry. First impressions are never good, anyway. I mean, I wouldn’t have jumped you if you didn’t come off as a technology-consumed millennial isolated from the world around you.”

“Seriously?”

“We _both_ got off on the wrong foot.”

“You crept onto a fence and attempted to yank my body over it so you could drain me dry.”

Dick’s jaw drops and his eyes widen. “What? You thought — no, no! Oh, man, I wasn’t going to ‘ _dry you_ .’ I’m not a _murderer._ I was just going to feed a bit. At most, you’d faint and be out for — an hour, _tops.”_

Jason winces and clucks his tongue. “Ah, still not winning me over. I don’t take well to being forced against my will to donate blood. Red Cross is bad enough without actually assaulting me in the middle of the night.”

Dick closes the remainder of the stranger-danger distance between them. “Well, I wouldn’t have to resort to aggression if this region wasn’t so anti-vampire.”

Jason snorts, unimpressed. The area is anti-everything. Anti-were, anti-witch, anti-human, anti-everything that isn’t in-group. “And what would you prefer, _Dick?”_

Unexpectedly, Dick catches Jason by the wrist and holds it near his face. Jason tenses, but doesn’t pull away. It’s either the ice of Dick’s skin or the heat in his eyes that paralyzes him. “It’d be easier if you just _let_ me bite you.”

And then Jason _does_ take his hand back. “Hey, none of that vamp-trance _bullshit._ I can smell— ”

“That’s a myth. Vampires can’t entrance people.”

“Then how come werewolves can smell it when your kind pulls Houdinis?” Jason counters. He doesn’t realize he was relatively calm around Dick until his instincts return in a rush, squeezing his muscles and screaming for a fight-or-flight shift.

 _“Pheromones,_ pup. They don’t do anything but keep the peace, alright?” Dick explains, firm but not hostile. “If weres are getting ‘entranced,’ it’s their own fault for taking the placebo.”

Jason considers this and feels blood collecting in his ears. To distract himself, he grabs his phone again and speed dials Bruce. “I’m calling my boss and handing the phone to you. Just keep your hands to yourself, Dick,” he warns, “and we won’t have a problem.”

Dick smirks. That one fang peeks out again, and Jason imagines it slicing into his wrist — or carving messages into his neck. “I’ll do my best,” assures Dick in a voice that is anything but assuring.

Jason shakes off the image of Dick’s mouth anywhere near him.

There’s no way vamp-trance is a myth. No way.


	8. Jaydick: Werewolves/Vampires 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick apparently catches Jason’s reaction anyway and hides his mouth behind his palm. The astonishment doesn’t wear from his eyes. “A _feeder?_ You must be joking.”  
>  His incredulity puts Jason on the defensive. “It’s no big deal.”  
> Dick more or less giggles. “Oh, man. Can I, in a good conscience, take advantage of your desperation?”  
> Jason glares. “Fuck you.”  
> “Is that part of your offer?” Dick taunts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed Jason's relationship to Bruce slightly from the original chapter. In the last one, he is adopted by Bruce at an early age, refers to him as "dad," and goes by Jason Wayne. In this one, I decided to veer closer to canon - Jason is adopted late in life, refers to him as Bruce, and goes by Jason Todd.
> 
> This is for Jaydick Week 3 - Day 2: Contract with the Devil.

“Really, Dick?” Jason asks, eyebrows raised. He slips off his brown leather backpack so it hangs casually off one shoulder. Dick likes to tease that the bag makes him look like a schoolboy. He hopes this mitigates the effect.

Dick rubs the smudge of blood at the corner of his lips, looking embarrassed. The driver lays slumped against a box of shift suppressors. “I was hungry.”

Shift suppressors are expensive around Gotham, although some states have passed legislation including them in the free health care package. Gotham and its sister cities are of the opinion that if werewolves can’t afford shift suppressors for the full moon, then they will find somewhere else to live altogether.

For the most part, it’s a solid strategy. The exception is when a werewolf is willing to buy under the table from the Waynes, the presiding pack in Gotham. They sell suppressors cheap to weres who can’t afford the medication properly.

Gotham, meanwhile, gets its suppressors from Bludhaven. In the past few months, the Titans clan has risen to the top in the black market while they build a cleaner reputation in the political realm. Hands shifted from one circle to the next and now the Waynes deal directly with them for imports. Per request of Jason’s adoptive father, Bruce — “request” always being a nebulous term with the head of the Wayne pack — Jason has become the go-to guy for all things vampire.

Or at least, all things Dick Grayson.

“He offered, okay?” Dick defends himself, pointing wildly at the unconscious figure. The man’s baseball cap shields his eyes from the moon spilling over the blacktop of Park Row Market’s parking lot.

“Yeah? You vamp-trance him into that?”

Dick rolls his eyes. “When will you quit that? We went over this the last exchange. Remember? We asked Siri? Spent, like, ten minutes searching for non-existent proof?” When Jason doesn’t immediately respond, Dick says in exasperation, “ _Snopes_ discredited it. If you can’t trust Snopes, what site _can_ you trust?”

Jason needs to set the record straight. “First of all, jackass, Snopes didn’t discredit shit. It said the evidence was _inconclusive._ Second of all, if this was so consensual, why’s the dude lying there like he’s all coked up?”

Dick gives him a put-upon look. “Was I supposed to carry him in my arms all the way to Bludhaven?”

Jason smiles, saccharine. “To the car would’ve been fine.”

Dick purses his lips, cogs turning in his head. While he ruminates over his bedside manners, Jason motions one of his guys to help stack boxes into Bruce’s truck.

“You know, I get the feeling you see me as an asshole,” mentions Dick.

“No!” replies Jason, aghast.

Dick nods as if he knows he deserves the sarcasm. “Fair enough. But maybe you could try seeing things from my point of view? _Pretty please?”_

Jason waves his hand: _Proceed._

Dick launches into his narrative. “It’s been a long day. You’ve been been ushered out of bed after three hours of sleep. The weather app says it’s going to be a _beautiful,_ sunshiney morning with a slight chance of spontaneously combusting into flames. You slather on some sunscreen that’s expired and makes your normally flawless skin oily as fish, and you smell like fish because you live by a river, and you meet with D-list politicians who keep asking you to smile real big for photos because they want you to look trashy with your _super-scary_ _fangs._ ”

Jason crosses his arm against his chest. He can tell this will take a bit; Dick is a very chatty vampire.

“Your best friend doesn’t know how to operate the kitchen but he’s taken it upon himself to feed the clan for a dinner celebrating the wholly unpleasant meeting with the mayor of Bludhaven,” Dick continues. “He sets off the fire alarm and burns a good portion of your counters, so _that’s_ going to be in the paper, right next to the picture of you shaking hands with the mayor. After politics and insurance paperwork, you get the pleasure of engaging in _criminal activity._ And you can’t even complain about the burnt dinner, because all your human drug mules are going to make stupid comments like, _But I thought vampires get sick off juicy roast and apple pie._

“You don’t get sick off freaking awesome food, but do you get sick off charred beef, so you’re both starved and light-headed because, in between the hustle of daily life, you haven’t kept your blood levels up. Your driver notices you’re looking worse for the wear, so kindly he extends his wrist. And then passes out two minutes before a brutally attractive, but rather snotty pup arrives to make you regret getting out of the coffin today.” Dick finishes his monologue and tilts his chin up like he’s presented a moving speech on vampire rights.

Jason thinks in the back of his mind, _You can help feed an infantile vampire with just one pint of blood a day. Be the change and call now._ “Huh, a coffin?” he voices instead. “I always pictured you hanging upside down from the rafters.” Jason holds two fingers above each side of his head like bat ears.

“Very funny, Jay,” Dick says with a pinched expression. “My point is that it’s not easy being a vampire. We don’t all have a Dr. Carlisle to smuggle us free bags of our exact blood type.”

“Wait, blood type matters?”

“Well, not for me. Universal receiver.” Dick does a peace sign. “But the _principle_ stands. You think I like hunting after a long day at work? Or explaining to creeps with fetishes that just because I drank their blood once, doesn’t mean I’m secretly into them? Not to mention _anemics._ Usually I can smell them, but when I get a cold, _forget_ it. My nose gets all stuffed up.” Dick shakes his head in disdain. “It’s tough.”

Jason snickers and digs in his pockets for a box of cigarettes. “You get that a lot? People confusing sex with dinner?” he asks, balancing one between his lips and lighting up.

“Not to sound like I’m bragging, but yeah, constantly.”

The background noise of wheels on the main road only stands out to Jason approximately a few seconds before his father’s smell hits him. He rolls his eyes and leaves the conversation, Dick calling after him.

Jason makes it to the sidewalk by the time the wheels roll to a stop. Out step none other than Bruce and Tim. “Hey, boss. And secretary,” Jason drawls, nodding at Tim.

Bruce looms over Jason, hands stiff at his sides and sunglasses over his eyes even though it’s night and nobody on the right side of the law is watching. “I brought Tim here to oversee the transaction in your place. You and I need to talk.”

Jason glances in question at Tim, but the kid quickly looks away. _Yikes._ “Now?” Jason asks, just to be difficult.

“Of course,” says Bruce, oh so smoothly.

Jason gazes over his shoulder at the parking lot. There are only a few more boxes left to load onto the truck. Some distance off, the unconscious driver is still slumped on the ground. Dick is poking his shoulder.

Jason heaves a sigh and acquiesces. “Alright. Let’s paint the town red.”

Bruce’s lips quiver in a smile that dies before it lives. “Funny choice of words,” he remarks, circling over to the driver’s side, and Jason knows instantly he’s in deep.

Jason shoulders off his bag and opens the passenger door. As he ducks inside, he warns Tim, “Hey, don’t let Edward Cullen over there read your mind. If he goes for your neck, suplex him.”

Tim crosses his arms, but there’s quiet laughter in his eyes. “Dick’s nicer than you are.”

“You said the same thing about Lex Luthor before he had Clark’s wings forcefully removed in a surgery scam,” Jason points out. Beside him, Bruce starts the car.

Tim’s eyebrows furrow in indignation. “How was I supposed to know he was a demon?” Jason shuts the car door. Before Bruce drives off, he hears Tim shout, _“He wears pupiled contacts!”_

The roof of Park Row Market hasn’t even disappeared from view when Bruce cuts to the chase. The streetlights slice his face into fragments of cheekbone, downturned mouth, and tired eyes. “Commissioner Gordon called me today. There’s been talk of a black wolf with a white forehead sending drug dealers to the hospital.” Bruce slows at a stop sign, and then turns a corner. “A few of them have left in body bags.”

Jason drums his fingers against the door. “Only the ones who sell to kids,” he modifies.

Bruce sighs. It’s a heavy sound. “I’ve already said you can’t keep doing this. I can’t protect both you and my reputation.”

Jason laughs, dry and sarcastic. “Can’t forget your sacred reputation.”

The moon is a sliver high above the Gothic architecture of modern city staples. They drive by a plaza old as dirt roads. A red neon sign featuring two strategic roses declares Gotham’s longest-standing strip club. Right next to it is an overpriced convenience store sporting arched windows and a Subway made of stone.

“My ‘sacred’ reputation provides for the pack and ensures Gotham is a safe place not just for our kind, but for everyone. The only reason the GPD hasn’t cracked down on our black market contributions is because we keep the peace. If we’re no longer doing that, they will put an end to my name and Gotham will erupt into chaos.”

Jason whistles lowly. “Sounds dramatic.”

Bruce’s fists tense around the wheel. “I’m firing you, Jason. You no longer have a place in the business.”

Jason is struck. “Whoa, _what?”_

“You’re still in the pack and you’re welcome at our home, as you always have been. This decision has been made with no harsh feelings. In fact, the whole pack is having breakfast this weekend — ”

“Man, fuck your omelettes, you just _fired_ me!”

“Finding another job — ”

“I thought I was supposed to take over when you retire. I thought I was supposed to be, you know,” Jason waves his hand helplessly, “the alpha.”

Bruce’s expression is admonishing. “You know how I feel about you using that word. It’s a cliche that stigmatizes werewolves.”

“Well, that’s what I was supposed to be, right?” Jason persists. In the back of his mind, he knows he shouldn’t be surprised. He devoted his adolescence to reminding Bruce how little he mattered to the family. Why is he shocked now that it’s true? “You said you were training me to be responsible. For when you’re laid up on a cot and hacking your lungs and can’t tell the difference between Cass and Duke because your eyes have fallen out from old age.”

Bruce clears his throat. Jason watches his posture, reads Bruce’s body language for how it closes off. Bruce is uncomfortable as he informs, “That position has been passed to Cassandra, actually.”

“Seriously?” Again, Jason shouldn’t be surprised. Bruce wouldn’t fire him without someone else immediately lined up.

Efficient.

“Cassandra has more than proven herself worthy of managing all aspects of the pack, including the street and Wayne Enterprises. She is intelligent, hard-working, and disciplined.” It’s the way he says this last item that Jason feels the tape measure held up against his body. _Disciplined._ But Jason doesn’t need to hear her resume.

He thought — foolishly, in retrospect — that it would be Damian. Of all the people in Bruce’s immediate circle, Damian is the most deadset on usurping Jason’s rank. It’s another surprise that shouldn’t be a surprise at all: the quintessential Wayne is _Cain._

“Dami’s going to be pissed,” Jason notes.

“If he’s smart, he’ll hold his tongue and refrain from challenging her.”

“Because she’s more deserving of leadership? Unlike me?” Jason leans closer to Bruce. “Because al Ghul gives me hell and you never say a damn word.”

“That’s untrue _and_ unfair. I have defended you plenty. It’s not on me if verbal taunts from a _child_ shake your confidence.”

That’s it. Jason’s not going to sit here and be insulted on _top_ of fired. “Stop the car,” he orders, undoing his belt and grabbing his bag from the floor. “I’m getting out.”

Bruce slams down on the brakes abruptly enough that Jason’s back bangs against the suede seat. Jason nearly rips the handle off in his urgency. “Avoid cameras,” advises Bruce, quiet.

Jason shoves the door closed as brutally as possible in response. He takes off at a running pace toward an enclave of trees behind a gas station, shedding his jacket and then his shirt until he’s obscured by shadows and can strip off his boxers and socks, too. Once he’s safely tucked out of sight, he hears Bruce drive off. It’s exactly what he wants, to get the hell away from Bruce, yet he hates the sound nonetheless.

And he hates how Bruce stopped the car. Even if it’s what he wanted.

Jason stuffs his clothes into his bag and sets it on the ground. He takes a deep breath and breathes out through his nose. Closes his eyes and tries to feel the moon and the millions of invisible stars on his skin. Imagines fur where cool air touches and — his bones shift.

Jason grabs the bag with his teeth and tears into the streets. He’s operating off memory of Bruce’s meandering drive until he’s near enough to pick up Dick’s scent. That shouldn’t take too long. He reeks of stale blood and, to a _slightly_ lesser degree, cinnamon cologne.

Jason’s paws kick up the wind in his fur. All his senses are enhanced. He hears more, sees more, smells more, feels more. There is still rage pumping through his veins, but as he runs, the night air sharpens it to a finger point — deadly as ever, but refined now and ready to make bleed. When he gets close to the parking lot, he can taste cinnamon mist on his tongue.

He listens to the odds-and-ends of conversations; the transaction is finishing up. There’s a wonderful cruelty in how rapidly one world can be knocked out of orbit while the others keep turning.

He strides over to the side of Park Row Market, a shoddy wall cloistered in shadows. He drops his bags and cuts his eyes across the lot. Dick’s driver is awake and shutting the trunk of his car. Dick is in the center of the activity, texting on his phone.

Tim is engaged in a discussion with a Titan who could win at stereotypical vampire bingo. She’s a slight thing with long limbs that seem to billow. She wears a dark cowl over her lean face. Her cheekbones, perhaps elegant in life, appear gaunt. Tim either hears Jason approach or traces his scent, because from far yards away, Tim raises a thin eyebrow at him.

Jason bares his teeth, but doesn’t growl: _Don’t talk to me._

Concern passes over Tim’s face like a cloud before he shrugs, willfully indifferent, and redirects his full attention to the Titan.

Jason snatches his bag up and trots toward the back of the building. Obtaining the minimum standard of privacy, he closes his eyes again and merely thinks: _Tall._

It’s this metamorphosis of hindlegs becoming human and snout flattening and fur sinking into the follicles. He remembers his first shift. Many pups find the transformation process humiliating. Some adults do as well. In a cosmopolitan neighborhood, the idiosyncrasies of puberty are scarier than they should be. In Park Row, no matter the species, the knowledge that they are bizarre and foreign to _someone_ nips at children’s heels.

The school nurse gently told him that the transformation process was not embarrassing, but perfectly natural. That he should never feel like it was shameful to shift, even if he did it by accident or in public. Her comfort did more harm than good for Jason’s middle school years: Jason has never been a modest boy to begin with, and no one had to tell him twice not to suppress his wolf traits. He destroyed more outfits than his parents could afford in those days.

Jason doesn’t open his eyes until he’s humanoid. By then, he’s greeted with soft applause. Dick Grayson steps forward. “I haven’t seen a werewolf shift in centuries.”

It’s the person Jason came back for, but he expected to have this talk on his own terms. Dick is maneuvering the pieces, complicating a game Jason already finds impossible. He bends over, aware of his audience on a level he’s not accustomed to, and scoops up his clothing. “That so? Look as good as you recall?” He pulls his boxers up his legs and wonders for the first time if blushing shows through his tan.

“Memory has softened the details,” Dick admits, “I forgot how the bones, uh, _move._ ” He waves his hand emphatically. “Beneath the skin. It’s something to see,” he concludes, placing his hands on his hips and exhaling.

Jason zips his jeans. Dick blurts, “You don’t get cold, do you?”

“What?” Jason adopts a weird look and pulls his shirt on.

“Just, you don’t look cold.” Dick shrugs. “No goosebumps, I mean.”

Jason slides on his jacket. He can’t smell Tim anymore, which means he needs to get on with it. “I was looking for you, actually,” he begins.

Dick smirks. “No kidding. Am I taking you to my leader again?”

“Sure,” Jason says easily. “I’ve got a proposition for him.”

Dick keeps smiling, but his eyes crinkle in confusion. “Another one?” In the background, the driver calls for Dick and goes ignored.

“Yeah, you see, I don’t think Gotham’s been working for me lately. I need another city. Nothing too far away; I’m not stupid enough to build from scratch.” Jason stares Dick down. “I like Bludhaven.”

Dick takes that in, not breaking eye contact with Jason. His smile has fallen somewhat, but there’s still a crooked amusement in the curve of his open lips. He shakes his head. “No, no one likes Bludhaven. Everyone _escapes_ to Bludhaven because, for whatever reason, their first choice is off the table.” Dick slinks forward. “What’s wrong with Gotham?”

“It’s not mine, so I don’t want it,” Jason answers truthfully.

“Bludhaven’s not yours, either.”

“It could be.”

Dick crosses his arms. “Why should it be?”

Jason has no interest in sharing his life with anyone, but there are worse people to share a territory with. He wags his finger and tsks. “Don’t ask why, Dickie. Ask me _how._

“I’ve got connections. Not a ton, but I’ve got them. You let me bring some to Bludhaven. Let me build.”

“A _pack?”_

“An _empire,_ ” Jason corrects.

Dick laughs. “You and what kingdoms?” he asks. The driver calls Dick again; this time, it resounds with collective shouts from Titans. Dick skirts around the building while Jason grips his patience. “You guys go on ahead,” he hears Dick dismiss. “I’ll see you at the house.”

Upon Dick’s return, Jason immediately explains his idea. “Our kingdoms. Your Titans and my — people.”

Dick stands in front of Jason. “Your theoretical people?”

“I’ll gather a group in no time,” Jason assures. “I’ve got no plans to kick your clan out. If anything, I’m an investment. I’ll bring you resources. My successes would be yours, yours would be mine. Think of a joint bank account.”

A breeze sweeps over the parking lot and ruffles Dick’s dark hair. He pushes his bangs back. “Ignoring the obvious marriage joke, I don’t think my best bet while I’m still establishing the Titans is throwing in with a pack that doesn’t even exist yet.”

“Are you against it?” Jason pushes. Dick’s trucks pull out of the lot. Vacancy envelopes the two of them. The privacy makes this easier. He doesn’t need anyone going to Bruce with this information.

Dick mulls the question over. “No, not really. Nor am I _for_ it. You’re asking me to give hand-outs and hope you pay off in the long-run. On principle, I should say no. I like you, pup, but the deal’s one-sided and I’ve got a clan to care for.”

“Okay, bullshit,” says Jason. He’s sore that Dick thinks he’s handing out anything. “Don’t act like you’ve got the upper-hand. I’m established in Gotham and I’ll be established in Bludhaven the _second_ I step foot in that cesspool of fish and slumlords. None of my influence goes away, you got that?”

Jason burns. He wants to punch Dick so hard he falls to the concrete. Playing nice, however, is going to be his trump card. He pours steel into his next words and goes for brazen. “How serious were you about feeding being inconvenient?”

Dick’s expression is one of surprise. His response is slow and measured. “Fairly serious.”

Jason forces the offer through his teeth. “How much would a feeder be worth to you?”

Dick bursts into shocked laughter. His fangs stand out like knives. Jason fights the instinctive recoil.

Dick apparently catches Jason’s reaction anyway and hides his mouth behind his palm. The astonishment doesn’t wear from his eyes. “A _feeder?_ You must be joking.”

His incredulity puts Jason on the defensive. “It’s no big deal.”

Dick more or less giggles. “Oh, man. Can I, in a good conscience, take advantage of your desperation?”

Jason glares. “Fuck you.”

“Is that part of your offer?” Dick taunts.

Jason edges into Dick’s personal space. Dick backs up proportionately, though not apparently out of fear. “Yes or no. Don’t waste my time.”

Dick stares at him for a moment. He honestly looks amazed, if not stunned. After some time, he says, “Okay. Yes. You can be my, um, _feeder._ As you so eloquently put it.”

“There a better word?” Jason says this with attitude, but he wouldn’t mind an euphemism if Dick has one.

“Vampires usually call them ‘buddies.’ It’s not _that_ much more politically correct, but—”

Despite himself, Jason laughs. “Wait. _Buddies?”_

“Like. Drinking buddies.” Dick grimaces at the explanation.

  
“Holy fucking shit,” Jason says, grinning. “That’s embarrassing as hell.”

“Whatever,” Dick concedes, put out. “I’m going to Bludhaven.”

“Hey.” Jason catches his shoulder when he tries to walk away. “We got a deal? You give me space and assistance in Bludhaven, I let you snack on my cardiovascular fruit punch?”

When Dick looks up at him, Jason is caught off guard by how pretty his eyes are. He tunes his ears for a heartbeat. “I’ll draw up the contract,” Dick jokes.

Jason hears it: not a thud, but a soft tap every now and then, like a butterfly testing its wings.

 


End file.
